


Locked: The Bono and Edge Story

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9910592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: L.A. 1992. Edge receives the sort of delivery one can not prepare for, not in a million years, compliments of a certain Mr. Anton Corbijn.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeamadonna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/gifts).



> Hello all, I wrote this fic tonight in three hours and am feeling a little crazed at the thought! Who needs sleep, right? So this came about after Ms. Likeamadonna posted on tumblr discussing a podcast where it was mentioned that when Bono and Edge were teenagers, they handcuffed themselves to each other and found the whole thing giggleworthy. I mean, how could I not write a fic after such a thing? But also, mostly, this was inspired by a certain photoset of Bono, which has been haunting me. Fuck you, Bono. How dare you take a bath that one time. I admit I was inspired partly by LAM's Close, in that Edge look at photo and brain go boom, so I thank you for that inspiration...and also for the, frankly, incredible title to this fic. It's better than anything I could have come up with.
> 
> Sadly, there is a photo that I mention here of Bono in bed... that does not exist. At least I don't think it exists. Who knows what sort of shit Anton is keeping from us?? HE COULD HAVE ANYTHING STASHED AWAY. Show us, Anton. Come on. Please. We've been so good.
> 
> ...I hope you all enjoy. I love you all.

He remembered the muted _click_ , and the way Bono’s face had split in two with an impossible grin, growing even more impossible when the question had been asked:

_Alright, where’s the key?_

_Key? What key?_

Stuck together with Bono in his element, dragging them both this way and that - _God, it would be a shame if we were stuck like this foreeeeverrr_ \- Edge had found himself caught up in the madness of it all, the both of them lost in a fit of giggles in front of a _Help Wanted_ sign.

There had been no help in sight, and Bono had preferred it that way.

“We can make this work,” he had casually said as though they weren't caught in a problem that needed a solution - never mind the fact that, later, Bono would slip the key out of his back pocket with a smile and a shrug that said _what are you going to do with me?_ to which Edge’s silent response was always _there’s nothing I can do, really, but it’s okay, it’s fine . . .we can make this work_.

And as they had walked away from the shop, shoulders brushing, metal clinking, uncontrolled smiles on both their faces, Bono had taken Edge’s hand in his, fingers curling, grasping, knowing in a way that Edge had never quite been ready for. “It’s easier,” Bono had announced, and even then, Edge had known it was a bullshit excuse. And with the bullshit excuse had come the bullshit ignorance, because Edge had seen the key being tucked away, moments before Bono had come at him with a brand new pair of flimsy handcuffs. “Till we find the key. _If_ we find the key.”

He’d let it slide. Mostly. “You would think one would want to know the exact location of the key before one handcuffed themselves to another person.”

Bono’s smile had been glorious, his face lit up for the world to see, but it had only been the two of them, walking along the path with their shoulders bumping, their fingers grasping, glancing up to catch the sun before it left the sky. “I’m not bothered. Are you bothered?”

He hadn’t been.

For a time, though, he’d almost been able to forget. Put it out of his mind, and carry on with his life; three little girls, a wife, and a world of problems, all bearing down until something had to give.

“Do you remember,” Bono had said in New York, two weeks before, maybe three, with a glass in his hand and that smile on his face, “me purchasing that pair of handcuffs when we were teenagers?” Edge’s response had been a slow smile, and Bono had taken it as an emphatic _yes_ . “It seemed like such a good idea at the time.” He’d laughed, swirled his glass to make the ice cubes _clink_ , and after surveying the bar his gaze had returned to Edge, with a look that was as fiery as it was amused. “I remember being unsure of how you would react. I figured there was a chance you’d be angry, and a chance you would find it funny, and a chance that you might even react in a way I couldn’t possibly have predicted. I figured there was only one way to find out.”

He’d laughed again, and Edge had joined in, slow and unsure, with his thoughts beginning to _ping_.

Why now?

Why then?

There was a chance that it had just been another day for Bono. There was always a chance, for so many things, and Edge had never quite been able to turn such thoughts into words, though he’d been close before; a few times dangerously.

Why now?

An answer, of sorts, came to him in Los Angeles, two or three weeks after New York. It could have been a month. It could have been a year, such was life on the road, and sometimes Edge found himself anxious at the thought of time, wondering if and when he would wake up one day fifty years old, unsure of how time had gotten away from him. Other times, he felt completely blasé about the loss of time - an occupational hazard, he supposed. The life of a rockstar, if he could call himself such a thing, and some days he was even able to do so without breaking into laughter halfway in.

“It’s normal,” someone had said to him once. It might have been Bowie, it might have been someone else, but it had been _someone_ of note, and with such a memory Edge knew he wasn’t shit, knew he wouldn’t ever attempt a memoir, because who wanted to read half forgotten stories about people with no names?

“I’ve no memory of June or July of ‘74. They’re just gone, like _that_ ,” Bowie or Not Bowie had said with a snap of his fingers, and, after a thoughtful pause, added, “The rest of that year doesn’t fare much better, actually. A complete haze.”

Edge had been almost sure it had been meant as a reassurance.

The knock came just as he was getting comfortable in front of the television, as was always the way, and Edge entertained the thought of just ignoring it. Past experiences had shown him that was a bad move, however, as picking up a phone and redialing again and again until a response was received was as easy as breathing for Bono, and such a step always followed an unanswered knock.

With a sigh, Edge dragged his feet to the door, where he found a boy who looked about six days out of high school, wearing a name badge that said Emilio, though he introduced himself as Elliot. Averting his eyes, Elliot or Emilio was smiling so hard his cheeks looked as though they might burst, and, after thrusting the manila envelope Edge’s way, his shoulders drooped as though he’d just completed the most trying of tasks. “I was asked to deliver this to you personally . . .sir.”

Edge thanked him, took the envelope, and stuck out a hand to shake because no matter how many times he looked in the mirror and saw himself -  little Edge, boring Edge, having an existential crisis Edge - after however many years he’d finally been able to realize that the world contained a few, those happy few, people who looked to him as so much more. It wasn’t something he understood, and mostly he was happy to direct such people Bono’s way, because Bono did it better, did all of it so much better, but Bono was out enjoying Los Angeles, and a simple handshake was nothing. Nothing.

Though it seemed like it was everything when Elliot or Emilio took his hand, shook it, held it for a beat too long and thanked him, in that unnatural sort of voice that always made Edge wonder if he himself sounded like that when faced with someone he looked up to.

He waved the boy away, watching him until he vanished around a corner, then stepped inside with the envelope in hand. There was a _Do Not Bend_ stamp marring the yellow, and after bending it ever so slightly Edge had half a mind of what the envelope contained.

Upon opening his suspicions were confirmed, though he was still confused as to why exactly. It wasn’t every day he received such a package - often he had to wait until a stack of magazines were dropped at his feet.

Returning to the couch, he first turned the television to mute before reconsidering and switching the set off completely, and as he wiped his hands on his jeans he couldn’t help but wonder, nor could he ignore that odd little sensation that danced at the base of his neck. It felt a little bit like an overreaction, for such an innocuous package.

Carefully, Edge emptied the contents onto his lap.

There was a post-it note stuck to the top of the pile. In red ink Anton had written, in a scrawl that was almost as bad as some Edge had encountered, ??? _thoughts??? - A._

Only once before could Edge recall Anton ever seeking out his opinion, and it had been early on, when they’d both been as green as each other. It seemed strange, so many years later, for Anton to do such a thing, but then they were a group that specialized in strange.

Edge peeled off the post-it before sticking it against the coffee table, and although he knew, of course he knew, that they were only prints, that he could do with them whatever he felt and still Anton would have something to show off to the world, he still felt the need to be careful. Because prints or no, Anton had entrusted Edge and Edge alone with them.

Or so he figured. Maybe three more envelopes had been delivered to three other hotel suites, he didn’t know. There was a chance that Larry was sitting on a near identical couch, thumbing through the same prints with that bored look on his face, while Bono and Adam’s envelopes were there, ready and waiting a few mere inches inside their room, having been slid under the door for them to see whenever they returned to the land of normal.

Maybe.

Edge wasn’t quite sure. But for now, all he could do was assume, and that feeling - the same one that danced at the base of his neck, twisted in his stomach and whispered in his ear, a breathy voice that haunted him when he least expected it - told him, quite fervently, that he was alone in this quest.

And such a quest it was, at six in the evening in Los Angeles, locked away with a cooling cup of tea at his side, on a couch that should have been left in the eighties. The early eighties. It was an exciting night for a rock star, and Bono had sulked when Edge had chosen peace and quiet over him, though he would get over it. Or Edge would give in and go find him and Adam. Whichever came first.

The first print he had basically seen a hundred times before; the four of them caught in a mood out in the open, captured in black and white. The black made Bono’s hair look impossibly dark, the white highlighted the space between the two of them, and quickly Edge moved on.

It was more of the same with slightly different poses, and Larry’s face out of focus to the left. “I don’t care about perfection,” Anton had told him once. “I care about capturing life. There’s nothing perfect about life, so if some of my pictures are out of focus?” He had shrugged. “That’s just how life is, isn’t it?”

Four prints in, and Edge found himself slightly baffled. There was nothing of note, nothing that might make Anton stop and begin to doubt himself, and as exquisite as the pictures were - because they were always exquisite, even when it was his own face he was looking at - Edge wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if they never saw the light of day.

Quickly he moved on to the next print, and quickly he realized his mistake.

He should have been slower. Taken his time, worked his way up to it, though Edge wasn’t entirely sure he could ever prepare for such a picture. Because he had seen Bono in the bath, he had seen Bono in all sorts of settings, every and any which way he could appear, but he’d never seen Bono _in the bath._ With one arm reaching out of frame, the other covered in bubbles and supporting his head, so close to brushing against the television behind, and dimly Edge noted who was on the screen, like one might note a counter-top in the midst of a pornographic film. There was Bush, there was a window, there was a towel, unused, and that was all so lovely, but all Edge could really focus on was everything that came between.

Hairy thighs emerging from the water. Perfectly placed bubbles hiding away what was between those thighs, and not being able to see anything made the whole thing more erotic in Edge’s mind, allowed him to paint a nice picture that he could look upon whenever he wanted to, match it with any number of thoughts that lived in his subconscious - and there were so many involving Bono. So many.

Anton had taken the photo from above, a risky move considering the setting. One false step and he might have slipped, fallen backwards and cracked his head, or tipped forward; straight into the bath alongside Bono. Where Bono was naked, with his hairy thighs spread and a hand reaching for something or someone out of frame, his expression saying _do it, I’m ready, I’m waiting for you._

It took far too long for Edge to move on to the next print, and in doing so he felt as though he were stepping out in front of the firing squad. He knew what was coming, even before he saw it, because there was no way any boring old band photo could follow that. No way.

He was right. In his hands emerged a second bath photo, though this one wasn’t nearly as promiscuous. It was more playful, more rockstar, and not nearly as fun for Edge, as much as he hated to admit it. Still, he took in the curl of Bono’s fingers where they grasped a champagne flute, the knees jutting from water that seemed far more fluffier with bubbles than the previous photo. Immediately Edge wanted to take one step back, return to a world where Bono looked up at him, eyes hidden but the intent so clear. _I’m ready, Edge, I’m waiting for you._

“Fucking hell,” Edge muttered, even as he resisted the urge. Pushed himself forward even, to the next print; though, as it turned out, that was a mistake. “Fuck. . .”

He had seen Bono naked, he had seen Bono clothed, he had seen Bono with one sock on and nothing else, or caught in a compromising position, or coming from one, flushed in the cheeks and glowing with that special post-orgasm haze in his eyes. But he’d never seen Bono so naked without actually exposing himself, with his hands barely covering and the camera zoomed in, focused on one area and one area alone, and without a face to look upon it would be easy to assume it was someone else, but Edge knew. Of course he knew, and it was strange, how they laughed off nakedness but averted their eyes somewhat, a half baked form of privacy that never really amounted to anything, that seemed pointless at the end of it all. And as he looked upon the print Edge had half a mind to turn away, no matter how much Bono’s hands were covering. It still felt like an invasion. It still felt wrong.

He didn’t turn away. He looked. For a long time. Too long, even.

Anton was a bastard. He was a fucking arsehole.

Though he couldn’t have known.

Edge didn’t think he could have, anyway. He was almost sure he had hid his feelings well, almost sure that it was him and only him privy to this never-ending form of beautiful torture.

_The camera never lies, Edge. . ._

Surely Anton couldn’t have been that cruel. And he wasn’t, didn’t have a cruel bone in him. Edge was almost sure of it.

He was just looking for Edge’s opinion. On all of the prints. Just looking for an opinion, that was all, nothing cruel about it.

And Edge had an opinion, as he found himself still looking at that one goddamn picture - fuck the group photos, keep the rest. Keep them all to himself, a little gift that only Edge would know about, and maybe Bono had already forgotten he’d posed for them. He’d posed for so many over the years, and it was Bono, after all.

“I think they’re crap, all of them,” he could tell Anton, later on when he finally found the urge to pull himself away and pick up the phone. “Complete crap, nothing the world should ever be subjected to.”

“You’re wrong,” Anton would answer. “Did you not see the way Bono spread his legs for the camera, like the tart that he is? Everyone should see that, Edge. Why are you being so selfish?”

It was a sad state to find yourself in, losing an argument in your own goddamn mind. He was a sad man all over, and he was still looking at that one picture of his best friend, naked and hiding behind careful hands as though he was shielding the most precious jewel Edge could think of.

“It’s not selfish, Anton, it’s just . .  .I get so little in life. Let me have this one thing,” he might counter, and still Anton would say no. Still he would lose, in his own goddamn mind, because that’s how life just went these days.

_That’s just how life is, isn’t it?_

It took the most herculean of efforts, but somehow Edge found it in himself to move on to the next print, sighing as he did so; resigned to his fate. Because of course there were more.

Of course there were more.

It wasn’t the bath this time. It wasn’t even Bono naked, though he was still exposed, completely and utterly. In his face, the twist of his mouth - almost a smile but maybe not, who even knew with Bono?

Edge did. He always did, and he knew that face, knew only to look to Bono’s eyes to find any and every answer to all of the questions he might think not to ask.

From a single glance Edge knew that Bono was slightly uncomfortable, though you would never tell from his expression. Still, he was looking at the camera head on, mouth twisted and eyes gleaming, out of sorts and yet going for it - completely exposed in a way that most would not be able to see. His hair was glossy and in waves, the print in blessed colour, showing the deep blue of his eyes, the blush of his mouth, and the rising pink at the dip of his throat. In black and white he would have missed that last little detail, but in colour it was front and centre, demanding attention and posing questions that Edge just couldn’t find the answer to, no matter how hard he looked.

Eventually, he had to stop looking for clues and face what was really in front of him. It took a while, though, and even when he looked he still couldn’t quite believe it.

The bathtub he had recognized. His suite had featured one almost identical, though it hadn’t been by the window. And he wasn’t one hundred percent, because it might have been two or three weeks prior, or a month, or even a year given his memory, but Edge was almost sure. Even without remembering completely, his gut was telling him he was correct, he was dead on, and what was more, he was right in putting two and two together and coming up with something intriguing indeed.

He remembered the fiery look Bono had sent his way, and he remembered that bathtub. New York. Two suites down, while Edge had been unaware and _blissful_ about that fact, Bono had been busy, it seemed. Edge wondered if he had shared with Anton, before settling down on the bed, their little story, or if it had all went down organically.

Who even knew with Bono. Edge certainly didn’t, no matter how often he reassured himself otherwise.

The handcuffs looked of quality, gleaming for the camera as they bit into Bono’s wrist in the most delicate of ways, and although the second cuff was hidden by a mess of jet-black hair, Edge was certain that, had Bono moved his head four inches to the left, he would prove himself to be very much handcuffed to the frame of the bed.

Right.

He moved on to the last two prints, one of his own face which wasn’t at all what he needed to see at such a time, another of Larry, which was better than himself but still.

With the pile finished, Edge was left feeling a little confused as to what he should do next. He could watch television, or stare at the blank screen blankly. He could ring Anton and loudly voice his opinion on the whole thing. He could look back through the pile and pretend as though he wasn’t searching for something in particular, but was in fact looking upon the prints with an eye of a critic, noting any little thing that seemed amiss. Not at all imagining handcuffing Bono to the bed, or spreading his damp thighs further, or dragging his hands away, while all the while Bono was whispering in his ear _imagine what else I get up to when the camera isn’t looking . . ._

Abruptly, Edge launched himself from the couch and headed from the room, leaving the prints scattered across the coffee table. Returning, he selected two of those prints to take with him before abandoning the room once more.

The knock came a little before midnight, rousing Edge from his third round of staring numbly at the ceiling. He was stretched out on the couch, where he’d collapsed however many hours ago feeling blissful, like he was free and floating through the world, but at the same time like he could go off at any moment, his mind a rambunctious nightmare. It was quite the conundrum to be in.

It was Bono at the door, because of course it was. Edge stepped aside to let him in. He smelled like a bar and was looking slightly unsteady, with that loopy look in his eyes that told Edge that he was in for a strange time. “I’m of two minds,” Bono announced as he made his way in. Resigned to his fate, Edge slowly closed the door before following. “I love LA and I want to live here sometimes. But Edge, I cannot imagine living here. How do people live here? But I love it. Mostly. I’m of two minds, Edge.”

“Yes,” Edge said, “I heard.”

Bono threw a crooked smile his way before throwing himself down on the couch, and inwardly, Edge flew into a tiny panic. Outwardly, he remained calm, though he did glance quickly toward the prints, stacked neatly on the coffee table, the ten of them together once more - which was better than if they were still parted, better than finding two tucked away in his bedroom like a dirty magazine, but still scandalous. If Bono saw what was in that pile . . .

Well, he had posed for them, so he knew. But he didn’t _know_. Much of anything, it seemed, as he was still smiling at Edge crookedly, even as Edge glanced back towards the pile, again and again, as if he’d just started showing signs of a really obvious facial tic. “Sit,” Bono said. “I missed you tonight.”

“Did you?” Edge went and joined Bono on the couch. “Where did you go?”

“Here and there,” Bono replied, but his attention was turning elsewhere, and clearly, it had been a mistake to sit down. Standing across the room, Edge had commanded all of his attention. Sitting down so close, Bono’s eye was free to wander. And of course it wandered straight to where Edge didn’t want him to look. “Oh.”

It was a flat _oh_ , giving away nothing, and Edge found himself wondering if this was what dying felt like. “Bono-”

“I didn’t think they would arrive so quickly.”

Edge’s mouth clamped shut. He stared at Bono, reached out when Bono picked up the prints, but his hand was pushed away. “Wait-”

“What are you doing?” Bono’s face was one big question mark, and Edge found himself laughing despite himself. Or maybe because of himself. He was a fucking disaster, and there Bono was, looking at him like he was crazy. Which was completely apt, Edge had to admit. “I was there when they were taken; I know what they look like. I just haven’t _seen_ them yet.”

Edge paused. His brain stopped; started; went around again and again until it found a middle ground, and as he watched Bono shuffle through the prints, he found himself stuck on a single question: “What did you mean you ‘didn’t think they would arrive so quickly’?”

Bono glanced up. “Well . . .” He shrugged. “I thought they would take longer?”

“Bono-”

“Alright, alright.” Throwing up his hands, Bono chuckled lightly. “I called Anton the other day, alright? Asked him to send these along and if he would be so kind could he please try and make it for LA, since we had a few days here. It seemed like an ideal setting, you know? But, I mean, I didn’t think it would arrive on the first day, and he seemed a bit confused, and maybe he’s got an idea or two, I don’t know, who even knows with Anton, really, his head is so far up it’s headed for the clouds, isn’t it? But he sent them anyway, which is nice. It’s real nice.” Again, Bono shrugged, this time sending a warm smile Edge’s way.

“Right. Right,” Edge said. “What the fuck are you even saying to me right now?”

“I’m saying . . .” Bono flung his hand forward as though he were swatting a fly, or emphatically blasé about the whole situation, heaving out a giant _whoosh_ of breath as he did so. He looked a little befuddled, though, and Edge could relate. “Did you like the one-”

“I liked them all,” Edge cut in, because fuck it, Bono was drunk and he had liked them all, and it only felt a little strange to admit.

“Really? Even the-”

“Yes. But, B, back to-”

“Because you know, Anton didn’t seem sure but when he saw I had already bought them he laughed and said ‘why not?’”

“. . .okay.”

“All the other ones I told him he could print. But that one, that one is our little secret, isn’t it?” Slowly, Bono reached out a hand and found Edge’s. His fingers were warm, slightly clammy, and immediately Edge closed his hand around them. He couldn’t quite believe himself, couldn’t quite believe Bono, couldn’t quite believe any of it, really, but it was happening nonetheless. “Just another little secret, hmm? Edge?”

“Yes,” Edge said when he could. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”  



End file.
